Sweet Caroline(45)

A few more strokes and we are halfway to the finish line. I look back to see the Death Dogs have not left the start line. What gives?

“Keep going.” I cheer my team. “We’re winning.”

The breakfast-club boys stroke hard, putting their lean muscle into it.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Hope abounds in my heart. We’re going to win this thing.

The crowd watching along the riverwalk goes bananas. The weak-lings from the Café are smoking the Marine Death Dogs. Even if they launched right now—

“Stroke!”

I whip around to see the Death Dogs oars in the water, pulling in unity.

“Stroke.” The captain’s voice explodes in the sunny, Beaufort air. Another unified pull and the Death Dogs are practically halfway to us.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I yell, sounding every bit like a doggy chew toy. “Go, y’all. Go.”

The muscles in Mitch and Andy’s back ripple. The breakfast-boys grunt. We surge ahead. The finish line is right in front of us. I can taste it.

“Stroke.” The Death Dogs’ raft glides alongside ours.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I holler, my voice weakening along with my hopes.

“Stroke.” The Death Dogs shoot past us.

My mouth drops as I watch, stunned.

“Stroke.” One last pull and they power right over the finish line. The waterfront crowd watches in stunned amazement.

Dupree jumps up. “I’m bringing y’all up on charges of insubordination.”

Miss Jeanne yanks on his swim trunks. “Sit down, old man, and hush up.”

Being bossed by an old woman doesn’t sit well with Dupree any more than being beat by a raft of younger Marines.

“Don’t touch me, Jeanne.” Dupree jerks away from her, twisting to his right, catching his foot on Luke’s paddle. He stumbles. Arms flail. And over the side he goes. He comes up sputtering and cursing—again.

The Death Dogs celebrate in macho silence, raising their oars over their heads and barking, “Semper Fi.”

Dupree wags his fist. “Semper Fi this.”

Pastor Winnie leans over, plants his hand on Dupree’s head, and shoves him under.





SATURDAY-NIGHT SPECIAL


July 21—Final Performance

Mitch O’Neal at the Frogmore Café

Last Day of the Water Festival

Appetizers, Tea, and Soda


20

The last Saturday morning of the Festival, in the midst of a three-hour breakfast rush, I walk through the kitchen, sweating. “Did we forget to turn on the air?” Unthinkable, but I have to ask.

Between last Saturday’s raft race and Mitch’s nightly appearances, the Frogmore Café is back on the Beaufort dining circuit. Business picked up Tuesday and we’ve been busy all day, every day since.

We’ve done nothing but work and sleep. J. D.’s popped in most afternoons, dragged me back to the office for a little light necking, then left me breathless and, well, slightly heated. The man does things to me. Clearly, I’m not fifteen anymore. Wonder if the blue-light special speech has a statute of limitations?

But right now, I have heat issues of a different kind. Mercy Bea hov-ers over Andy’s oscillating fan, arms spread like bird wings. “Caroline, I think the air’s broken.”

“You’re not serious.” I check the thermostat while Luke drags a step stool under the vent. “Eighty-eight.”

“Nothing coming out, Caroline.” Luke jumps off the stool.

“No, no, not today.” I head out the door. “Not today.” Sure enough, the rusty AC unit sits in the afternoon sun, frozen.

We throw open the doors, click the ceiling fans to high, and send Dupree out for emergency fan buying. But by the evening, the Café is just too hot.

I call Dad’s AC guy, but his cell message says he’s “Boating. Back on Monday.”

So, in the very hot Café, Mitch prepares for his final night. He’s so gracious and fantastic about the heat. In fact, he’s been great all week. Last night he even helped carry out the trash—I let the crew clock out a little before eleven— and gave me a God talk.

Slinging the first trash bag into the dumpster: “Just because things aren’t going well, Caroline, it doesn’t change the fact He loves you. Don’t assign your mama’s weaknesses to God.”

I handed him the next bag. “I’m not. But when will I know God is on my side or whatever?”

He tossed the second bag of trash. “Just takes faith.” Dusting off his hands, he stared toward the amber bloom of the street lamps. “When I was twelve Dad signed me up for church camp. Did I ever tell you this? He really ticked me off and I stayed ticked off. On the last night of camp, there was a consecration meeting. All the parents came to witness their children pledging their lives to Jesus and His service.

“Dad was one of the speakers and I determined not to pledge my life. I wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction. The preacher’s kid—” He exhaled. “What a brat.”

I dug my clog’s heel into the sand-and-shell parking lot. “Did you embarrass your dad?”

“No, actually, God embarrassed me.” He gazes down. Half his face is lit by the moon glow through the trees. “And I deserved it.”